Towels and Tribulations
by Rygelina
Summary: Fluffy one-shot set before Nikita left Division. Nikita needs to talk to Michael. She hunts him down and gets more than she bargained for... Rated T to be on the safe side. Contains some ogling and language, that's about it.


**Disclaimer:** I do not own the characters and situations of Nikita. No copyright infringement is intended.

**A/N:** The plot-bunnies made me do it! I swear, I don't know where all these silly ideas are coming from. Stupid muse... :)

* * *

Nikita really needed to talk to Michael.

And if a tiny voice in the back of her head stubbornly insisted that it was a downright stupid – and patently transparent – reason for hunting him down in the locker room... well, she ignored it. In hindsight, she probably should have listened to it.

She jogged down the corridor, eyes scanning anxiously for a familiar face. An older agent in full tactical gear with a weathered face and graying hair came around the corner and she picked up the pace. He was headed for the elevator, a couple of younger agents trailing behind him like lost puppies.

"Hey, Anderson! Wait up!"

The older man slowed, and glanced over his shoulder. She thought she heard a groan as his eyes landed on her – quickly smothered as the man cleared his throat noisily – and he was either raising his eyebrows in question or rolling his eyes in exasperation. She couldn't quite tell and, frankly, at the moment she didn't care.

"You're heading out with Michael, right? Is he still in the locker room? I need to talk to him."

A hint of amusement came into the other man's eyes. "Yeah, he's still getting ready, but I..." His protest went unheard. Nikita was already sprinting away down the hall.

"Thanks!" she called over her shoulder with a stunning, if absentminded, smile.

"...don't think he wants to be disturbed," Anderson continued, muttering under his breath as he waved the rest of his team into the elevator. This time he most definitely rolled his eyes. Whatever those two had going on, he was staying out of it. _Way_ the hell out.

When Nikita got to the locker room, it was empty.

"Michael?" she called out tentatively, her voice echoing against the spare walls. There was no response, which left only one place to look.

She walked up to the glass door leading to the shower area; then she hesitated, conflicting emotions warring inside her. She really needed to talk to him, but suddenly she found herself questioning the wisdom of her plan. _Seriously?_ a voice whispered sarcastically in her head. _Plan? What plan?_

She opened the door and peered in. Clouds of steam wafted against her face, smelling of trees and spices and green, growing things. She breathed in deeply. The scent was heavenly and seemed to wind itself around her wits until her eyes almost fluttered shut and she could feel her brains trickling down into her shoes.

She shook her head groggily, trying to dispel the lingering aroma. Realizing that she was letting all the heat out, she threw caution to the wind and stepped inside, closing the door behind her quietly. Warm, moist air closed around her. The entire room was cloudy, and she was momentarily disorientated, as if she had lost herself in the fog.

Then a shape moved through the steam, a very familiar shape. Nikita drew in a startled breath and instinctively backed up against the door.

She had found Michael. Oh boy, had she ever found Michael...

He was just coming out of the shower, materializing out of the haze like a God suddenly made flesh. Nikita's mouth dropped open. She just stood there, gaping like a fish, her fingers clutching the door jamb like a life raft.

Rivulets of water still trickled down his long, lean body. His hair was dark and wet, plastered against his head, contrasting nicely against his pale, almost luminescent, skin. Tiny droplets clung to surprisingly long lashes, glittering like tiny stars in the blueish light of the fluorescents. A towel was wrapped around his hips, but it was very damp, not so much covering his hips as accentuating them in fascinating detail.

Nikita's mouth went dry and she swallowed convulsively.

He padded over to the sink and Nikita's eyes were glued to every single graceful movement, entranced by the way the light played over the planes of his body. The wet towel looked even better from behind, considering the way it clung to his...

"Did you want something? Or are you just going to stare?" He sounded distinctly amused and his eyes glittered with dark humor as they met hers in the mirror.

Nikita jumped, blushing a bright red. She couldn't believe that she had been caught staring at him like a drooling kid in a candy store. It was beyond humiliating. Desperately she hunted around for a viable explanation for her presence. She knew she had a reason for being here, but at the moment she couldn't seem to remember what it was.

"I, uh... That is...um-mm..." Nothing was coming to mind. She just stammered helplessly and tried – unsuccessfully – to keep her eyes on his face and not, ah, somewhere else.

_Damn the man and his thoroughly distracting physique, __anyway__._

_/_

Michael laughed quietly. He was about to have mercy on her, but froze instead, intrigued.

Nikita – normally so poised and confident – was turning an interesting shade of red, and was hemming and hawing her way through what sounded like an annoyed apology. As if her bumbling appearance in the shower room was all somehow _his_ fault. Completely illogical, but irresistible.

Her delicate face was flushed from the heat, and the steam was turning her severe, chocolate tresses into charming curls that framed her face in the most interesting manner. Suddenly, he couldn't bear to see her go. Instead, he found himself – once again – playing with fire. Hell, who was he kidding? He was starting to enjoy it.

He closed the distance between them and started toweling his hair dry. He suppressed another bubble of laughter as Nikita promptly lost her train of thought. Again. Her eyes glazed over and fixed on his bare chest and the towel hanging precariously on his hips. Michael couldn't resist. He put one finger under her chin and lifted it up.

"You were saying?" His voice came out huskier than intended.

Nikita shivered and blinked at him. "Uh, what?"

He laughed then, a deep, satisfied, masculine rumble. Nikita blushed even more, if that was even possible, but raised her chin defiantly.

He recognized the devilish glint hiding in the warm, brown depths and watched in fascination as she approached him, hips swaying seductively. A tingle ran down his back, having nothing whatsoever to do with the growing chill in the air. He knew her, after all. Was it trepidation? Anticipation? He couldn't quite decide which.

Then she slipped.

Her eyes went wide, her arms flailed, and with an undignified yelp she pitched forward and careened into his arms like a pelican on a suicide-run. He wobbled, bare feet going every which way, and instinctively tightened his grip on her slim, supple frame.

Unfortunately, it proved too much for the towel to handle. It slowly started unraveling from around Michael's hips, almost in a tortured slow-motion. Their eyes met as realization dawned._ Uh-oh... _

If they had just kept their cool, it would have been fine. Instead, they both panicked.

Feet still fumbling for purchase on the floor, they scrambled around for the tiniest slip of terry cloth to grab hold of; wobbled, lost their balance and – with a mighty screech – went down on the wet tile floor in a tangle of limbs.

Luckily, Nikita landed on top.

/

Michael oofed as Nikita landed, her head smacking into his breastbone, hair flying everywhere. She dragged herself up on her elbows, spit out a couple of errant strands, and looked at him sheepishly. Michael was groaning in pain, his face almost purple. She frowned.

"Michael, are you alright?"

"Move... your... knee..." he managed to squeeze out.

Realizing exactly where her knee had landed, she hurriedly moved it and straddled his hips instead. She sat up slightly, and put her hands on his shoulders for support.

"Sorry. Better?" she inquired anxiously, her face blazing. _Jeez, can this get __any __more embarrassing?_

He looked up at her with a strange expression on his face. "Uh... not exactly," he whispered.

Nikita cocked her head to the side, eyes twinkling as her lips slowly curled in a mischievous smile. "Oh, really?" She leaned forward and crossed her arms on his chest, her face mere inches from his. "Uncomfortable, huh? I think I like that," she whispered and bit her lip.

"Don't do that."

His eyes had darkened and she swallowed, having to fight her way free of their mesmerizing pull. "Don't do what?"

He reached up and stroked his thumb over her lower lip, tugging it free. "That."

"Oh," she whispered, her smile widening.

Michael snagged a damp strand of hair and ran it slowly between his fingers. His other hand settled on her hip, a warm and secure presence. Compared with the chill in the air, his skin felt feverishly hot, and her palms tingled in response. She squirmed in his arms, eyes flying wide as skin rubbed against skin. Michael looked equally startled by the sensation, but then his eyes dropped and his face shifted to the strangest expression.

"Michael?" He didn't answer. "Michael!?" she repeated, a little louder.

"Huh? What?" he said distractedly.

When Nikita followed the direction of his gaze she saw that it was glued to her cleavage. Her white tank-top had soaked up a considerable amount of water and was now practically see-through. Apparently, the view was... distracting.

This time, she was the one who laughed. He yanked his eyes up guiltily and she thought she saw his cheekbones coloring slightly. _Gotcha..._ she thought triumphantly, and knew that it was written all over her face.

Nikita's hair fell like a curtain around them, enclosing them almost in their own private, little space. Her eyes were helplessly drawn to his lips. They looked very inviting, moist and red from the heat. She couldn't help it, she leaned further into him, and felt his hand tightening on her hip. She tilted her head, their lips only inches apart...

Which is when Birkhoff crashed through the door.

"Yo, Mikey! Will you get your ass in gear already!?" He screeched to a halt – almost dropping his tablet, briefly juggling the expensive hardware – at the sight of Michael and Nikita on the floor, both wet and flushed and wearing matching expressions of pure, unadulterated panic. "Oh, dude..."

Then he smirked, practically choking on thousands of bad puns. It must have been kinda obvious, because before he could even open his mouth, Michael held up a finger.

"Not a single word, Birkhoff."

"Aww... but Mikey..."

The End


End file.
